Train on a Track
by seriousish
Summary: After a night of passion, Steve and Peggy pick up where they left off in the afternoon.


There were things Peggy wasn't sure she loved about Steve. Things that it was quite possible were very irritating, if she had any objectivity on the subject. Chief and foremost, when she was with him, the indignities of being a woman in a man's world… and most especially, a woman in a man's espionage agency… became mild, trifling concerns. At least, when compared with the frustration of not being able to be his wife, his girl, his anything.

Not in public. Not officially. Not, it sometimes felt like, for real.

It was all perfectly sensible. _She'd _had to convince _him, _in fact. After months of searching, he'd been found, brought back to her like King Arthur returning in Britain's time of need. Only there was no crisis, no war. Just a hole in her heart she thought she'd have to edge around for the rest of her life till it'd been abruptly filled.

So he was back. Hunting HYDRA war criminals, countering Soviet spy rings around the world, while she stayed in New York, working with the SSR. Filing paperwork. No, it was important work—Steve had seen to that, much as she'd stressed she didn't need her battles fought for her—she wasn't in the field, but she correlated intelligence, sifted out clues, saw the big picture like it was all one big chessboard and even Steve was just a knight. Not a pawn, no, but still a piece to be played.

And if the Reds or HYDRA or Leviathan knew what they were to each other, they would target her to get to him. And she would be given some cushy job befitting 'Cap's girlfriend' and it would have nothing to do with her talent and everything to do with keeping her out of the line of fire. And there were a thousand other reasons, a new one for every day she'd had to ask herself why, and they all made sense, bricks in a wall that she couldn't pick at or chisel through. Bricks keeping her and Steve apart.

At least in public. At least during the day. Alone, at night…

Lord Almighty, at night…

Maybe Howard had gotten so drunk he had forgotten it was supposed to be a wedding, and maybe Dugan and half the Howlers had taken their own honeymoon in a brothel that had kept them out of sight for a week, but the little Mexican ceremony had been wedding enough for Steve. What came next had been honeymoon enough for Peggy. For twelve of her.

And Steve had only gotten better. More confident. His blushes and stutters hiding deep inside him now, while his wicked little thoughts grew closer to the surface thanks to her gardening. Became smiles—little gestures—little looks.

At the train station, he greeted her as warmly as an old comrade, and only that warmly, but after they'd clasped hands, his fingers fell from hers ever so slower than they could've. A half-second that made her think he might just damn it all to hell and rip through her dress, down to her slip, down to her skin, have another taste of her because he damn sure hadn't had enough last night. But his fingers pulled away, and she looked up into his warm, steely eyes and found a little wryness that told her it was exactly what he'd wanted her to think.

She tried to listen to Howard's speech. Really, she did. Didn't even let herself stand beside Steve. It was a good speech; what she heard of it. Howard hardly ever paused for laughter, and needed to less than usual. A train from New York all the way to Canada, going right under Lake Ontario. Someday, the same advanced drilling techniques might be used for a train across the Pacific, or to accommodate cables that would relay all kinds of data that might _blah blah blah._

She could follow it, but why would she want to? When she could feel Steve sneaking his glances at her. It made her feel like she was naked, every time. Naked just for him…

For hours they rolled along, the train rocking them as gently as a baby in its crib, denying themselves each other as if they didn't know that would make the temptation stronger. Steve glad-handed with the men, comparing war stories with the few that had served, while Peggy handled the society ladies, sharing make-up tips, stories about Howard Stark. At one point she heard a gale of laughter; Steve telling an anecdote about his first costume fitting.

Finally, they were headed for the grand tunnel Howard had built. Everyone finally left them alone, headed to the windows to look out at the lake through the glass tunnel. The lights were turned down to enhance the view. And Peggy felt Steve's presence at her back.

"A tunnel underneath Lake Ontario," he said, his voice almost high enough to be civil, but mostly low. For her. "Awful long time to be in the dark."

"Shall I hold your hand in case you get scared?" she asked, glancing around to be confident they were ignored. After half a day, they were already yesterday's news. Now the people wanted to see what Stark had cooked up.

"Sure. Just reach back. It's right behind you."

She reached behind herself. Held the crease of his uniform pants, the firm muscle of his thigh. His hardness was only a few inches away. She was shocked at how stiff he was already. She felt electric, knowing she could do that to him.

"You're still crazy," she said, as if they hadn't done much more foolish things during the war.

"We could always go to the washroom," he suggested. Daring her.

The tunnel was coming up fast.

"I can't wait that long," Peggy replied.

A brush of air across the backs of her thighs as his hands scrunched in the hem of her dress, lifting it just a little, letting just a scalpel of wind in. Then the tunnel had them, sudden darkness, lights attached to the tunnel shining outward, not inward, the crowd oohing and aahing as they saw schools of fish catch the light, sunken boats—Peggy wouldn't be surprised if Howard had rigged up a sunken pirate treasure for them to pass.

Steve had her hem up over her garters. "You're not wearing panties. I know because I watched you get dressed this morning—"

"How could you look away?" Peggy quipped.

He continued over her soft teasing. "You didn't put them on. Want 'em? I've had 'em in my pocket all day. Sometimes I rub 'em between my fingers to remember how wet you were."

Crickey o'reilly, she was really going to do this. She was really going to let him fuck her in the middle of a train car, a whole mob of people not five feet away. She looked out the distant window, but saw only their shadowed reflection, chiseled into by the dim light. He rolled her dress over her ass, but from the front, it looked like they were just standing next to each other.

Enough. She had to have him. Hands behind her back, she worked at his fly, wrestling down his zipper, grappling through his cotton briefs, finally finding him, bringing him out. He leaned forward slightly, his cock so hard and so long that it was nothing for it to rub between her legs, find her wetness from behind, _touch her…_

She leaned back, felt him go into her, big, _hot, _the passage so tight that it almost seemed like her body was trying to repel him, but if it was, it changed its mind soon enough. After a moment of discomfort, he slid right in. From the way his breath pitched, she knew it was taking all his effort not to thrust her down onto her hands and knees, take her hard and fast like he had two weeks ago, the day before she'd developed that limp. It'd been worth it—maybe not worth the teasing she'd had to endure from Jarvis.

But no, now he just held himself still, held himself inside her, and even the slightest rattle of the train on the tracks caused friction, sparks, she almost couldn't control _herself, _but his hands were on her hips, big strong hands, pinning her dress to her waist, holding her steady as he just kept on _impaling _her, a low pleased growl in his throat like a mollified big cat, a breathiness in her panting like she was on top of a mountain, the two of them feeling things Peggy was sure neither had had with anyone else, and no one the wiser.

He gave her a squeeze, moved his lips in—their brush over her ear, him so close his head knocked her hat askew, didn't matter, his face against hers, he was so close, she could feel the stubble that had just begun to grow since his morning shave, smell his mouthwash after every hot breath on her neck, _feel him _harder and longer inside her, still not moving, still tormenting her.

Peggy thought of how she'd come if he did it, if he pushed her against the wall and _fucked her _hard, in front of everyone, in and out, out and in, the same pleasure she had now just _hitting her _over and over again. He'd give it to her if she asked for it. Wouldn't care what it cost him, what people would say. He'd give her anything she asked.

And she'd give him everything. Whatever was left after she already had. "Tunnel's ending," he told her. His voice so much darker when it was a whisper. Still _him, _but it felt so dangerous: more power, less control. "Can you come now?" Always so solicitous.

"I don't think that shall be a problem," she replied, speaking as close to a scream as possible without raising her voice.

He reached in, his hand caressing her cheek, cupping her jaw, thumb kissing across her lips before his palm covered her mouth. Then he thrust into her, once, enough to knock her off her feet if he wasn't holding her. She screamed into his big strong hand as she came. And he came inside her as well, a grunt traveling right through his chest and into her back, a warm wet feeling inside her. Already it was starting to fall from her as he pulled away.

She felt something flutter against her leg. Looked down. He'd dropped her panties to the ground. As the light at the end of the tunnel grew from a marble into a basketball, she stepped into them, pulled them up her legs, sealed in everything that had happened. Her dress dropped, his zipper zipped, and they were out into the light. A respectful distance between them.

Without his hands holding her up, Peggy felt herself swoon a little. Damned feminine of her. Well, hell with it. If anyone was entitled to swoon, it was her after that. Really, someone should ask Steve how he _wasn't _swooning. He'd certainly shot enough.

Steve moved in, taking her arm, solicitously balancing her. "Are you feeling alright, Agent Carter?"

"Quite well, Captain Rogers, thank you. It's just that rail travel seems to disagree with me."

"Then let's hope for your sake that the aeroplane catches on better." He offered his arm to give her a better grip. "Could I escort you back to your cabin? Maybe you'd feel better if you laid down for a bit."

"Thank you, Captain, I think that and a spot of tea are all that should be required."

She leaned into him as he 'helped' her down the corridor. But resisted the urge to speak until they were changing cars.

"Don't you dare wash that prick off," she told him, voice strong with the air whistling past. "I want to taste our vintage tonight."

No matter how she'd managed to corrupt him, he could still manage a blush.

As she laid back in her cabin, letting him prepare her tea—something he was surprisingly adept at for a man dubbed Captain America—Peggy hoped that Steve was wrong. Air travel did agree with her body far more than the tracks. But the blasted things didn't go through any tunnels.


End file.
